To Make a Dead Heart Beat
by Joelcoxriley
Summary: Shealyne is a woman stricken with vampirism, her mere existence a mockery and a forgotten eminence of the Oblivion Crisis. In seeking aid to rid a family of trolls that have claimed her home, she stumbles upon Hadvar-a Nord whom she would have despised two centuries ago. To her shock, the young man agrees to aid her, and to her fear, she finds herself falling for a mortal man.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, this story is based on a dream, and is the more serious version of 'They See Me Trollin': A Skyrim Saga'. I've decided to break up the story into small chapters rather than have a giant one shot like Flesh and Soul. This will have eventual Hadvar/OC. In my eyes, the OC is the Hero of Kvatch, but NOT the Champion of Cyrodiil. That belongs to another. Either way, I hope you enjoy!**

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The sun shone through the white clouds, casting its rays upon the forested lands nestled between the Heartlands and the Great Forest of Cyrodiil in the early morn. Upon the border sat a small, wooden cabin that rested within a fertile meadow full of flowers and tall grasses which the wind lulled awake in the gentle breeze.

A woman was the sole resident of the humble shack, the Breton young in appearance yet aged in mind and heart. Just two hundred years ago these lands were once scarred with numerous Oblivion Gates opening and burning the land, unleashing armies of Daedra, and those were the days she remembered well. She had stood by her beloved Empire and country as demons ravished her home, and had seen the sacrifice and death of Martin Septim-the last Dragonborn of a legendary bloodline.

Cyrodiil had been her home for more than half of her unnatural life, yet she knew with the death of Martin that her beloved land would never achieve the power it once had again. Just some fifty years ago the Breton had fled her home, unable to handle the burden of seeing her once great Empire being desiccated by the Altmer.

Only several years after the White-Gold Concordat was signed did she return. Yes, her home had forgotten about her, but she would never forget the land that had made her some two centuries ago.

Now, the Breton had lived a very solitary life, as many of her kind did. Her dear mentor, Vicente, had claimed that all vampires shall reach an age where something within them changes and they shall seek isolation. Valtieri had admitted that he had already changed with his age. Yet, when the girl-for she was simply a girl back then-asked anything more, the male Breton would simply say she is too young to understand. Now, however, she understood.

A simple, quiet life she had tried to live which consisted of largely working upon alchemy-a skill she had foolishly neglected for well over a century.

Within her dwelling the woman sat, carefully rubbing the sweet nectar of a maple into fragile petals, several species of flowering plants scattered around and withheld in vases, resting upon various end tables. Silk shawls which were green in color lay upon wooden chairs and tables throughout the single roomed shack. Linen tapestries were the only things separating her private room from the rest of the wooden shack. The wind blew the gentle silks, the far wall from her dwelling's opening completely absent, only a railing standing guard as the open wall allowed her to view the meadow, forest and a river flowing in the distance.

The woman's red irises gazed upon the flowering plants within one of her many vases, lips curling back ever so slightly in a careful smile, fangs hidden.

It was one of those days where the pickings of new species of flowering plants would be plentiful, the flora fueled by the recent rains. As of now, the woman rose from her seat, the chair skidding against the floor in protest as she grabbed an empty basket. Basket in hand, the woman began to hum softly to herself as she moved out the door-which had looked like a mass of tangled roots-and into the fading sun.

The Breton had hummed softly to herself, blood kissed hair tied into a messy braid that had ran down to her mid back. It had felt good to change her hair. Were she two hundred years younger, Shealyne would have never dared to grow her hair passed her shoulders, content with the boyish cut that has draped upon her neck. With the coming of the new century, it felt almost necessary that the Breton should change her hair-however small. Such simple, almost non trivial things seemed to go by unnoticed to mortals who naturally changed with age: their hair thinned and lost color, their once smooth and soft skin became loose and wrinkled, their lungs weakened and caused their voice to grow course and strained, their once brilliantly jovial and youthful eyes lost their color and gained a lifetime of mournful memories and wisdom, their mind grew wise, yet departing and lost and their heart grew heavy with burden. All of these things Shealyne knew she would never become-her body frozen in time. She would never experience the natural process of her body slowly decaying, breaking, and returning to that frailty and vulnerability of an infant. Never would she experience that peaceful passing of the soul leaving the body in one final heave of breath.

Indeed, the more Shealyne dwelled upon the topic and paused to look upon a dandelion, studying its being, its reason for existence, the less she believed that she had a soul. For what was one stricken with vampirism? A husk of the flesh? A soulless vessel, cursed to feed upon those who have souls, have flowing blood and warm skin just to survive? Was her soul truly within the realm of Mundas? Or was her soul in the realms of Oblivion? Or nonexistent?

Shealyne continued to look upon the tiny dandelion, the flower's cheery, almost firelike petals casting a golden glow around it.

Slowly, the woman had kneeled upon the earth, trying to avoid crushing the dry grasses below her as she set her wicker basket to the side. With care, a feminine hand brushed the yellow hued petals, the soft floral tickling her skin-which was cold and dead. The woman's fingers then pinched the stem lightly, for she did not want to harm the small flower, no.

"You do not have a heartbeat, either, do you? Yet here you are, alive." Shealyne spoke softly, the corners of her lips lifting upward ever so slightly. Indeed, she felt no heartbeat in the flower, yet it was alive and well. Did that mean that the flower did not have a soul? Or did that mean that she was like the flower, alive, yet with no heartbeat, no soul...no desire other than to survive, to constantly live in the present?

The woman frowned slightly as her free hand rose to her chest, seeking to find a rhythm that just was not there. Her heart had stopped beating long ago, and while she knew better, the woman still dwelled upon the matter-if only in passing fancy.

Shealyne then broke her gaze from the small, seemingly insignificant plant before picking up her woven basket and rising to her feet, simple dress a bit stained from flora and dirt.

"Thank you." She spoke to the dandelion, which had aided her in understanding. With that, the woman had gone off deeper into the meadows, taking her time pick the best plants that met her qualifications.

In walking through the grasses, Shealyne suddenly cried as the ground beneath her foot gave way, causing the woman to stumble and fall. The basket had almost been crushed under her weight, and once regaining her bearings, the woman had struggled to free her leg from the hole-which she assumed was made by some mole.

However, the woman's struggling has only caused the ground to give way into a quagmire, Shealyne screaming as she fell underground into a tunnel. The earthen waterfall was so great even the light from the sun's rays were briefly blocked by the amount of dust.

Coughing, and covered with dirt, Shealyne rose to her feet, shaking herself off and trying to brush the earth off her person. Looking around, her eyes swiftly adjusted to the dim light before she glanced to where she once was above ground. She frowned, for the tunnel was too high for her to climb, even with the mound of dirt-which had crushed her basket, flowers strewn about.

Turning towards the tunnel, the woman sighed. It appeared she would have to get out the old fashioned way. With that, the Breton had begun to walk down the tunnel-which she hoped would lead towards the surface.

Had her heart beat, however, it would have skipped out of cold terror, for she had heard a cry that she had known well.

It was the scream of a troll.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello! Here's the second chapter! Hope you enjoy!**

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Shealyne felt her chest clench in a grip of iron fear as her eyes scanned the darkness, pupils reflecting in the dim light, cutting through the blackened mirk. She had seen nothing with her vision, and had slowly backed towards the dirt mound, warry.

She had heard a troll. She knew that blood curdling screech all too well, for she had heard them many times throughout the centuries. Trolls were something the vampire had always fled from. Swift, powerful and merciless they were. Unrelenting, fearless and savage. That was how she had described the trolls, and the imprint of her first encounter with them had scarred her mind with cries in the night.

Shealyne had been a girl during her first encounter-just eighteen years of age. And just beginning to develop the signs of vampirism. Though the cold steeled fangs of hunger did not spare her, no. Yes, it was a night the woman had remembered well, for that night was her first kill.

The Breton had remembered the memories, awakened by the cries of the beasts down below. The young girl was plagued with nightmares, and had a hunger she could never sate no matter what she seemed to consume. Exhausted, starving, plagued with visions and hallucinations she had wandered the Imperial City. Its cobble stone walls had seemed cold, lifeless and unfamiliar to her-for once in the distant past she had been a noble in the courts of Daggerfall. But that may as well have been another life, for the young girl had gone from a respected familiar background, to being a shadow among the mighty stone walls of the Imperial City. No one had cared for the young girl; lost, fearful and alone. Did not care that she did not know the land, or its people. Did not care that she was unfit to survive on her own. And did not care if she were to pass from the world.

Starving, and ill from lack of feeding, she had returned to Wawnet Inn-the same inn where her plague had begun. She had arrived by night, for she dared not travel in the sun-she seeming to have developed an allergy causing painful rashes when the sun would touch her flesh. A man had noticed her vulnerable state, and had approached the girl, beckoning her to him.

Shealyne had obeyed the man, naive and inexperienced nature allowing her to become easy quarry for one such predator. Outside of the inn he had ordered her to go, and she had submitted, thinking him kind and sincere. He had led her, like a lamb that was blind, deaf and dumb to its imminent slaughter towards the north, Wawnet Inn just in the distance, illuminated by night.

The Nord-for she had remembered that clearly-had then lunged at her, as if a wolf breaking out of sheep's clothing. She could not fight the Nord, for he was far too large and she too small, too frail, even though she had tried. Feeble were her attempts at self defence, though terror, rage and hunger had drove to an even greater action. In fear of her own life, she had become a creature less than man, and had tore the flesh from his throat. And she did not even realize it as she suckled the man's torn jugular, as if his blood was the sweetest of nectars.

Only after she had had her fill did her senses finally return, and in her horror she had seen what she had wrought. Tears streaming down her gaunt face, the girl had fled, terrified of herself and the creature she had seemed to become.

In panic, Shealyne had ran, desperately trying to outrun the lucid flashes of a gorging creature that ran rampant in her mind. Desperately trying to outrun the Imperial Guards that would eventually find the body. Desperately trying to outrun herself-which she had feared the most.

Shealyne had ran until she had reached the woodlands, gasping for breath. Calming down, and wiping the blood from her mouth-which had completely stained her tattered shirt and leather pants, clotted blood and dirt clinging to fur boots-she had realized something was wrong. She could not feel her heartbeat.

Cold fear had spread throughout her chest-though the realization was cut short as she had heard a cry, shrill, and almost mournful. She had turned towards the direction of the cries, and had seen a creature-hunched and furred, looking upon her. Shealyne had looked upon the small creature in curiosity, for she had never seen a creature such as it before.

The creature, however, had released a shrill wale, and had charged at the Breton girl. Upon realizing the hostility of the creature, Shealyne had turned and fled in terror, running as fast as she could through the trees and brush. She remembered how unnaturally fast the creature had moved, and how she could hear the pounding of its weight against the ground, as well as the deep breathing of the creature behind her as it got ever near her person.

It was then that she heard a second cry in the distance, and to her horror had seen another, larger creature attempting to flank her. Shealyne knew she could not outrun them, yet knew she could not stop. Desperately she had searched for an Imperial Patrol, yet knew she was too deep into the wood to be seen.

She had ran as fast as she could, but t'was not enough, for a powerful blow of nail and calloused skin had struck the small of her back. Shealyne had fallen, and tumbled down a sloped hill-for she had been running downhill at the time-and had landed within a natural pond. Within the water she had waded for sometime, face down and unconscious, ragged nails having cut open her flesh and shirt.

After several seconds of stillness, her body had twitched violently, the young girl confused and startled by the water as she flailed, head breaching the surface. She had coughed, gasping for breath, though found sharp pain when she would inhale, and felt the deep scrapes upon her back, though numbed by the cool water.

Wading in the water, Shealyne began to wonder why the creatures were not attacking her, and had noticed them upon the very edge of the muddy earth, barking and crying. They would not go into the water.

The woman had remembered feeling immense relief, though shortly realized that the beasts would not leave her be, for they were drawn to the scent of blood. It was then the girl had thought to cast a destruction spell, and summoned a weak ball of flame to be casted from her hand. She had missed, though the sight of the mere flare had startled the creatures, and they fled into the safety of the darkness.

Yes, that was a memory she had remembered well-and until now had merely pushed it to the darkest corners of her mind. Now, cutting through the darkness with her vampiric gaze, she had seen no sign of the troll that had ushered a chilling cry, though that did not mean it was gone.

Suddenly her gaze was drawn to faint wisp of light, gentle swirls dancing through the rock. The swirls moved, and grew brighter and stronger with its pulses until she realized that is was no wisp-but a heartbeat. The heartbeat was moving through the rock. The troll was moving through the tunnels. The troll was running to her position.

Shealyne's eyes had widened ever so briefly in terror, for she knew she was cornered. Unwilling to face a troll in its own domain, the Breton had turned on her heels and took a running shot towards the mound of dirt. Climbing the mound, she had jumped towards the opening to the sky in an attempt to escape, and had barely managed to grab hold of the earth above. With great strain and fear of the fragile earth collapsing around her, Shealyne had quickly pulled herself up, eyes being blinded by the harsh sun as she entered the open field.

Breathing deeply, Shealyne had calmed herself, though made a quick retreat to her home, not wanting to stay in the troll's territory and provoke an attack.

What she did not expect, however, was the soil behind her to rupture in a shrill scream as a large troll broke through to the surface.

"Damn it..." Shealyne muttered, turning around and focusing upon a massive fireball as the troll charged towards her, waling. Yet upon seeing the earth rupture as another troll emerged from the underground lair, her focus was shattered.

Seeing her vulnerability, Shealyne retreated into her home, rushing inside as she pushed passed the tapestries, moving towards her bed. Focusing once more upon her magica, flame had built up within her palm. Yes, she prefered this position much better. They could not flank her now, and the narrowness of her home would only allow one beast to enter at a time.

The sound of her door breaking seemed to shake the very foundation of the small cabin as a troll screamed. Shealyne flinched and backed towards the railing as the large beast shattered her vases and flipped her desk and chair. The silhouette of the troll could be seen just on the other side of the tapestries, the animal attacking her furniture wildly and sending objects flying.

The silk barrier dividing the Breton from the intruder was torn down and shredded by a powerful swing of the troll's arm, the beast rapping its chest as it reared upon its hind legs, towering over the woman. Shealyne had wasted no time in launching searing flame at the beast, the troll whimpering as the thick, suffocating scent of burning fur filled the shack. The troll clawed at its face, eyes seared by mage fire as it blindly struck at the woman, Shealyne barely dodging as her dresser was knocked onto the floor.

However, she was not fast enough to dodge the second attack, the blow having struck her abdomen with such force that the Breton was thrown back towards the railings, which had snapped under the combined force and weight. Shealyne had the wind knocked out of her, the woman falling to the ground below her home and landing roughly upon her back. Dazed from the sudden fall, she had barely noticed a small troll charging towards her, saliva flying from the creature's open maw, large canines eager to tear into flesh.

Realizing the danger, though unable to get up fast enough, Shealyne raised a seared hand and released a gout of flame. Though weak, it managed to keep the creature at bay.

Feeling herself unable to maintain the fire, Shealyne had swiftly looked around herself, grabbing a shard of wood that had once served as her railing. She was quite lucky she did not accidentally impale herself during the fall.

The magic sustaining the crimson flame and waned, and the torrent had died down to mere smoke and embers. The Breton cursed at her own inability to sustain the spell, for it allowed the troll to advance in its assault.

Desperate to get away, Shealyne had crawled backwards, and when the troll approached she had kicked the creature in its head, causing it to whine and whimper. The small beast shook itself, a dull pain resonating through its jaw as blood and saliva flew from its ever gaping maw.

Though brief, the distraction was all the Breton needed to escape, she running towards the safest place she knew-the river to the north.

Upon realizing its quarry was escaping, the trolls had given chase.

Shealyne ran as fast as she could, cold and pale hand clutching the makeshift weapon. She could hear the cries of the trolls in the distance, though knew they were gaining. They were fast. Like before, they were too fast.

She had felt the earth tremble under their sheer strength-or perhaps that was her own legs, which were sore and felt laden with weights. But she knew she could not stop. She could not allow her legs to give.

However, in running amidst the struggle to reach the safety that seemed so far away, she had heard the scream. And it was not from behind, nor from the side. It was from the front. It was then she had seen a large, almost black troll charge towards her.

She couldn't believe it. There were never just two; there were three. Three trolls. And they have just successfully ambushed her. She had seen it with wolves and deer gone astray from their herds. However, the trolls were the wolves, and she, the deer, running into the jaws of the alpha.

She was not sure what to do. Should she try to change her course and avoid the awaiting maw of the alpha, and risk getting run down to death? Or should she continue towards the beast, towards safety, and die with sanctuary just in sight?

Shealyne looked upon the wooden shard in her hand. She may as well use it, though she was unsure if she was as capable as she was with a blade during her youth-much less a wooden stake. Perhaps her skills may had dulled over the years of toying with alchemy. Even so, she would not know until she tried.

Steeling herself, and trying to push the doubt from her mind, the Breton had readied her only weapon as both she and the black troll ran on a collision course.

For the slightest moment, she had felt a twinge of terror creep into her chest, but the fear had quickly subsided as her mind began to awaken, and remember. Remember the years when darkness ruled her life, cold and unmerciful. She did not fear death then, and she certainly would not fear death now, even with the beast's rancid breath and open jowls ready to clamp upon her throat, the creature's powerful nails eager to disembowel.

"Sithis give me strength." Shealyne whispered, and as the beast lunged to strike, so did she.

A cry was heard, followed by the splatter of fresh blood spraying through the crisp morning air, painting the grass a darker shade of crimson.

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_...What is this? _

The thought had ran through her head multiple times-or at least seemed to. The question had echoed within the back of her mind hundreds of times.

_Where...am I? _

She could see nothing. Why could she not see? She had tried, though the pictures before her seemed as if she were in a haze, and were almost abstract in vision and thought.

_Am I...dead? Is this Oblivion? _

She felt something. Something...cold? Cold...no, that does not seem right. But it was moving. Something...cold and moving?

_If I am dead...where is it?_

Cold...and moving. No, no, not cold. Something and...moving. Moving and something...cold? Cold...not cold...cold and...wet? Wet. Something wet. Something wet and...moving. Flowing.

_Where is my soul?_

Water. It was water.

_Water?...Does this mean the Waters of Oblivion await me? Await my soul? Or...await me because my soul is lost?_

Darkness, and then light.

Shealyne breathed a large, struggled breath as she broke the water's surface, vision laden with water and hair as she tried to find her bearings. Sloshing in the water that was dragging her downstream, she was startled, and rightfully confused.

"W...water?" She questioned, trying to keep herself afloat and above the current, though was finding the action difficult due to her tired body.

"I...I must have...but how?" She questioned, continueing to wade in the flowing river before approaching the northern edge, the woman crawling onto the rockbed.

Groaning in pain, her arms had given out, and for several minutes she lay there, the wound upon her stomach gently painting the grey rocks a red hue underneath her. The woman was exhausted, awaiting to hear the cries of the trolls, but heard nothing but the sound of the river and several songbirds singing amongst themselves.

Shaking herself, Shealyne rose to her feet, stiff from her wounded abdomen. Looking upon herself, she had found herself stained with mud and blood. She guessed she had slipped and fallen down the muddy river bank before ending up in the river, but for how long she had floated down, she could not say.

Waterlogged, the woman had slowly made her way to the direction where she knew an Imperial Highway ran. With any luck, she would be able to find a Legionnaire that would help her in this unfortunate event.

Once reaching the old road, her mind had then wandered, replaying the events in her head. However, the most odd thing was that her encounter mirrored with what happened to the first troll she saw. Odd, that.

The woman had continued down the road, ignoring the pain of her body and worrying about her home. She did not know what shape it was in, but what she did know was that she needed help. Shealyne had focused upon counting the cracks in the Highway, trying to take her mind off of the destruction of her home. She could deal with that later.

Unconsciously, Shealyne had begun to hum to herself, oblivious to the world around her as she once more receded into her mind to pass the time. In fact, the woman was so oblivious that she had barely noticed an Imperial Soldier-and only noticed the man due to the gleam of his armor from the sun's rays.

Shealyne had noticed the man, and attempted to call out, though could not find her voice. After several seconds, she had beckoned the soldier, hoping to gain his attention.

"Excuse me! Legionare!" She had called, waving to the man, and felt her chest swell with pride upon remembering such polite and civil greetings as the man turned to her, "I require assistance!"

The far taller man had approached her, stating his shock upon seeing the woman in such a state, "Gods!-are you alright, ma'am? That wound looks rather nasty."

Shealyne cocked her head toward the man, his accent strange, almost as if he had a lisp, "I am fine, but my home is not. You...you are a...Nord? How? Legionnaires are only Imperials." She questioned, finding it absurd that any other foreign race would join an Imperial force.

The taller man looked upon her, though she could not see much of his features due to the helmet, "Really, now? And where did you hear that? A history book maybe?" The man drawled, the slightest hint of a snide remark withheld in his tone, "Either way, you mentioned your home is not safe?"

Shealyne nodded, eager, "Yes. It was attacked by trolls-three of them. This morning, they attacked from underground, and took my home. I do not know what to do." She stated, beginning to wonder why she was even speaking with this Nord. They were all drunken, barbaric bastards, the lot of them. She was sure this one was no different. He would probably agree only to gain glory. Or tell her to stop being a milk drinker and get the job done herself.

"I see...well, I think we should get you patched up first, okay?" The Nord suggested, Shealyne looking upon his as if he were stupid.

"Pardon? My home is what needs attention to, not me." Shealyne stated, irritated and a bit shocked at his choice.

"Really? Look, the way I see it, your house and those trolls aren't going anywhere. I don't think it would hurt to patch yourself up a bit. I mean, you don't want an infection do you?" The man questioned, Shealyne crossing her arms over her chest.

"I don't get infections. And the more we dilly dally the more those animals ruin my house." She hissed, frustrated. All those years of fixing up her little cabin...and it took only seconds for it to be ruined.

"Mmmhmmm." The man nodded, pausing to pull some bandages out of his satchel, "Well, anyway, here's some bandages. Go wrap up that wound there and I'll help with your troll problem. Deal?" The Nord suggested, holding out some cloth for the woman to take. She stared at the bandages for several seconds, debating before ripping them from his hand.

"Fine. Thick headed drunk...won't listen to reason..." She muttered under her breath, walking just off the road to clean her wound. Several times she glanced back, checking to make sure the man was not looking upon her, for she did not trust him nor his race.

Once her wound was cleaned and properly bandaged, she emerged onto the highway.

"Feel better now?" The man asked, Shealyne twitching a bit.

"Please...I just want my home back. It is this way." She muttered, leading the man down the Highway until they had broke off into wilderness, for the Highway did not reach her home.

The pair had walked in silence for several minutes, the Nord breaking the silence, "Damn...you live out pretty far."

The Breton felt herself inwardly groan. Why was this man a chatter box? Or perhaps she was just old...

"I like my privacy. And I like silence." She added after a second's thought.

"Oh, I see. I come from a small village in Skyrim. It's a quiet little place, and not much happens, so it's peaceful." The man spoke, Shealyne twitching. He obviously didn't get the hint.

"Oh? How nice..."

"Name's Hadvar, by the way. May I ask of yours?" He asked, Shealyne thinking of simply not responding, though she knew that would not help the situation.

"My name is Shealyne."

"Shealyne, huh? Weird name, but that's 'cause it ain't a Nord's name, so to me all the names of other races are strange. Weird, huh?" Hadvar spoke, smiling a bit towards the woman.

"Yeah. Weird. You certainly are amicable, are you not?" She questioned, the taller man chuckling softly.

"Hey, I try to. Someone has to be around here. So...these trolls were underground?" He questioned, the Breton nodding in confirmation.

"Yes. I fell in a quagmire and into their lair. When I got out they started hunting me, ambushed me. I am not entirely sure how I got out." She admitted, Hadvar briefly looking her over.

"Well, I don't envy you. You must have the grace of the Gods if you survived three trolls. Though I think that if you stay away from the lair, they would leave you be. Or should, anyway." Hadvar spoke, Shealyne pausing to look at him.

"Did you ever face Cyrodilic trolls?" She questioned, the man shifting a bit.

"No."

"Then that is your problem." She stated, continuing to lead the man to her home, the small cabin in the distance.

"Oh. Then what is the difference?" Hadvar asked, the pair becoming alert as they drew near, the soldier unsheathing his sword, which gleamed in the noon's rays.

"Everything." The female Breton whispered, she craning her neck to see better, "I do not see them."

"Stay here. I'll take a look." Hadvar whispered hoarsely, the woman shaking her head in disagreement.

"No, I will go. It is my home and you never faced trolls like these before." Shealyne replied, rising only to have the man point the flat edge of his sword towards her.

"Then you should not have come to me for aid. You are an Imperial citizen whilst I am a soldier. As such it is my duty to the Imperial Legion to protect those who cannot protect themselves." Hadvar countered, the woman standing, defiant.

"This is _my_ home."

Hadvar sighed, submitting, "Fine. But just stay behind me, okay? If anything comes, you run."

"I ran last time. I am not running again." She stated, the Nord just shaking his head.

"I give you credit, you got guts for a Breton. And a woman. Now come on, and remember to stay behind me." Hadvar ordered, the woman at least complying to that as the man readied for a fight, the pair cautiously approaching the home.

Looking around, they could see no trolls, nor could they see any inside.

"Damn it. They must have gone underground." Shealyne cursed, seeing several vases were dragged outside and smashed, as well as a chair. Inside it looked ever worse. She didn't even want to look inside. It hurt her to see her home in such a state. After all those years of caring for her home and building it up...it was gone.

Hadvar remained alert, Shealyne looking around the field, spying the dandelion from earlier. However, the once cheery flower was crushed, stem broken and yellow petals smeared and ruined.

Sighing, Shealyne kneeled upon the grasses, a gentle hand attempting to fix the broken stem, though to no avail.

"You had no heart, yet you lived, existed. And now what are you? Are you dead? Do you yet live? Where is your soul? Did you ever really have one?"

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**I think the dandelion will be a reoccurring motif in this story, possibly as well as water. I hope I got Hadvar right. I'm not too good at him, but once they get on better terms I think I'll get a better feel for him. I also have no idea why he was in Cyrodiil. **

**Well, thank you for reading** **and feel free to give your opinions.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello! Here's the third chapter! Updates will be rather erratic depending how much free time I have. Hope you enjoy!**

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Shealyne sighed, rising from the grassy floor as she turned her attention towards the Nord, "I admit, I am at a loss on what to do. I thought the trolls would still be here, but alas, they are not." Her tone was soft, as if one of apology as her lips pierced together into a thin line, eyes squinting into the harsh field alight by the sun's rays, searching.

Hadvar had turned towards her, sheathing his steel blade, the briefest flicker of gleaming metal once more causing her gaze to fall upon him. "Huh. Well, look on the bright side: you no longer have trolls in your home. Do you know where their lair is? I know that I don't know much about the trolls of Cyrodiil, but if they are anything like the ones in Skyrim, they stick to their lairs unless disturbed. Hopefully this was just a one time thing." The man drawled, voice slow and smooth, as if used to these kinds of odd predicaments.

The woman briefly looked at him before nodding, "Yes, I know where their lair is. It is just to the east of here-in the fields. You can see the quagmires from quite a distance with the disturbed lands. However, I do not know how large their nest is. For all I know, my home could be right in the middle of an underground complex." She had frowned, Hadvar remaining quiet, head lulling softly from side to side as he took in the information.

"Okay, then. I'll go check out the lair, alright? I would much rather have them attack again if a soldier is here-even if that soldier is me. I think it's best that you stay here." The man suggested, once more unsheathing his blade with a sharp hiss.

"I will go with you. I know where the lair is. You will find it much faster were I to accompany you." Shealyne spoke, red irises looking upon the Nord akin to curiosity. This Nord did not seem interested in a death or glory mission-but rather sincere worry another's well being. That was strange, and something she did not understand nor expect from a man of his lineage. Part of it felt...she was not sure, for she was unaccustomed to emotional turmoil. Driven towards an external force, anyway. It was something she did not experience in quite a while, and as she pondered, the answer did not come clearly.

"With all due respect, miss...I think that is a terrible idea. Considering your wound, I mean. You know how trolls are with blood." Hadvar replied, clearing his throat, as if hesitant should the woman get offended. Instead, a soft, almost breathless, chuckle had escaped the shorter woman, and while her lips has turn upward in a careful grin, she did not dare express her fangs, which were always ready to feed.

"And that is why I have a Legionare such as yourself, yes? To defend those who could not defend themselves?" The Breton questioned, clicking her tongue before swiftly speaking again, tone swift and staunch, "As I stated previously, the ground near their lair is brittle. Should you lead, the ground would surely give under your stature. Besides, I can sense the trolls coming-for their movements shake the ground, something you would not pick up with your iron encrusted feet."

"...I take it you don't like heavy armor, do you?" Hadvar questioned, however his tone was one more of wry than offense.

"Hmmm? Oh, no, I like heavy armor just fine. I like it when I can run circles around stalk stiff warriors in their weighted armor whilst they just stare as if they are blind, deaf and dumb when they are far too slow to even strike their target." The woman replied, slight sarcasm dripping from her fangs, "And they make for excellent distractions as well. Just so you know, if those trolls come, I am tripping you."

The man snorted gently, nostrils flaring, "Great. Just what I wanted to do today: get mauled on by a troll. How pleasant. Either way, you lead, I'll follow, I guess. But if they do attack, stay behind me, alright? I don't want a death on my consciousness."

"Very well, then. Follow me." Shealyne replied, leading the man into the field, her senses beginning to dull as she fell into thought. She was not entirely sure why the young man was so deeply concerned with a mere stranger's well being. From the way he spoke, she doubted he had seen much death-much less put someone to the sword himself. A pity, that. She had not felt that innocence for quite sometime. Not in a very long time. Indeed, she had lost her innocence long ago, though if there was ever anything that made the Breton value life more, it was surviving. Not working for salary, or a home, or food, but true survival.

She had done many unspeakable things to stay alive during her first few years as a vampire-even with the aid of Vicente and the Dark Brotherhood. She would be gone for days, weeks, even months fulfilling a contract given to her by her dear Valtieri or Ocheeva. She would set off, traveling by day lest her hunger reared, and she would be forced to find any sort of shelter before the dawn, and wait until the moon had risen. She had spent the days hiding within Goblin infested caves, abandoned mines, Ayleid ruins, forts that had once held bandits, neglected and run down farmsteads, slave quarters, hollowed out trees. One time the woman had remembered that she was forced to cover herself in a pile of sheep manure, and once the sun had fallen, she had broke into the farmstead, and had gorged herself upon the husband and wife, draining their two bodies dry. She was so busy feeding however, that she failed to notice the young man behind her-a mere boy. The son of the modest couple had then rammed a heated fire poker into her spine. In pain, the vampire had screamed an ungodly cry, snarling and twisting like a wild animal, struggling to rip the heated metal from her back.

In a rage, she had attacked the man, and killed him most brutally. She did not even mean to, though she found herself hesitant to admit that it was almost fun. Once dealing with her wound, and cleaning herself up, the young Breton had taken the wife's clothes, and continued onto her destination.

Her kills during her younger years were often ill planned, and often in public, for she found it quite fun to spill blood of innocent ones before slaying the guards. Many times she would run out of Bruma, Bravil, or even the Imperial City herself, and cross treturous land and lake to flee within the safety of the vast wilderness. Her brazen had made crossing into Cheydinhal and wandering the Imperial Highways dangerous, for she was once quite well known.

However, as she became more experienced, and listened to the advice of her dear mentor, she had become more efficient in the art of committing murder unnoticed. Yes, she had lost her innocence long ago, and had hated killing at first, could barely stomach the thought, even. Yet in time had grown to love it, and those atrocities-which were senseless and merely for her own entertainment-were something she simply wished she could forget, yet knew she could not. She needed to keep those memories, those faces of those she had mutilated in the name of cruelty close her dead heart so she would never devolve into that beast again. Thinking back, she did not truly think what she did-or even what she was at the time-was even greater than an animal. She was something much worse. Something that killed without mercy, without thought, without need.

Briefly looking back to check upon the man, looking upon his hand-which had naturally held the hilt of the blade-she had hoped that he would not turn into such a beast as she once was. It was easy to lose oneself to the darkness, for murdering another was a very intimate experience that she had known well-much like feeding. She had seen war destroy good men, brave men. It was a shame.

Refocusing her gaze to the ground in front of her, Shealyne had paused in her stride to point towards an opening into the underground depths, "There it is."

"Yeah, I see." Hadvar replied, nodding as he joined the woman's side, extending his sword arm to jab the ground in front of them in several areas, "It feels sturdy. I don't think any of us will fall in."

"Well, I will go first, just in case. If the ground gives for me, it definitely will for you. You will just have to be Mr. Muscles and pull me up before they come again." Shealyne muttered, slowly taking a foot forward and gently putting pressure upon the ground, hearing the dried grasses crunch beneath her doeskin shoes. Gingerly she continued, cautious, and as she neared the original hole she had fell into, found the ground sturdy.

Slowly, carefully she had relied upon her nocturnal sight as she pried down below, and despite the harshness of the sun's rays, she did not see any heartbeat that would indicate the beastial creatures were below.

"Alright. I think it will hold. Worse case we both fall in." The Breton muttered, the man snorting softly as he approached.

"Joy. I always wanted to be trapped underground. So long as there are no draugr, I'm fine." Hadvar replied, mellow sarcasm within his tone as he approached, squinting to peer into the darkness.

"I'm not sure if they are down there. I see no sign of them." The woman spoke softly, the man kneeling at the edge of the precipice, sword dangling almost lazily from its owner's hold.

"Well, there's only one thing we can do to see if they are down there." Hadvar spoke, rubbing the stubble upon his chin slowly, as if in thought.

"What? Go down in?" Shealyne questioned, a thin brow being raised, the man shaking his head, chuckling slightly.

"Bold one, eh? If you like suicide missions, yes, I guess. But no, I have an easier way. Can you whistle?" He questioned, the woman looking upon him briefly, before simply shaking her head.

"Ah. Never mind me, I was just curious. Either way, if those trolls come, just be prepared to run, okay?" Hadvar questioned, as if making sure the woman understood. Upon seeing the Breton nod, Hadvar leaned towards the blackened hole, and released a shrill, high pitched whistle.

Shealyne flinched at the pitch of the cry, which resounded throughout the caves despite Hadvar having stopped the initial noise. The echoing cries faltered to mere whispers, Hadvar rising to his feet as he backed in his stride, forcing the shorter Breton back. Several seconds had passed in an air pregnant with heavy silence, the pair on edge and tense, yet no scream had announced the creatures that resounded a potential challenge.

A quavered breath escaped the woman as she licked her lips, eyes scanning intently, yet found nothing, "I...I do not think they are there. Not now, anyway."

"I hope so. Well, wherever they are, hopefully they stay there. Hopefully this was an accident, and they won't bother you anymore." Hadvar replied, slowly sheathing his Imperial blade, the pair still on edge as they made their leave of the lair's opening.

"And if they have claimed my home as their territory?" Shealyne questioned, a brow cocked in curiosity for his response.

"As I said, you would have some bad luck if they did. But trolls like caves, so they will probably stay down underground. My advice would be to stay away from that area unless you want to be attacked again. If they are still there, anyway." The man answered, Shealyne nodding in response, the pair approaching her home.

"Well..." She sighed deeply, shaking her head, "It appears I have quite the mess to clean up...I am sorry that you had to come all this way in the wilds for naught."

"Don't be sorry, miss. I was simply performing my duty. Trust me, it's better than patrolling and having nothing happen." Hadvar chuckled softly, smiling at the woman, to which she returning the gesture.

"Thank you. I still wish I could reward you for your troubles, though. It feels just that I do so..." Shealyne paused, fiddling around with a small satchel and producing a hand full of Septims. Her pale hand had extended towards him, the gold glimmering in the sun. It was rather embarrassing that she had so few coins to give him, for eight Septims seemed far too few a prize for such a possibly dangerous task, yet it felt wrong to allow the man to go unrewarded-no matter how small, "I know it is not much, but it is all I have. I do not need them. N...Not that you need them financially, but-for thanks, rather."

She stumbled upon her words, hoping she did not offend the young man. Hadvar had shook his head, waving the woman's offer away.

"Please, I would rather not. I simply did my duty, nothing more." Despite the man's protests, the woman's fragile hand remained.

"I insist. As thanks." She murmured, Hadvar looking upon her, eyes narrowing in slight irritation.

"Do you take me as a swindler? I do not want your money, and that is final." The Nord replied, the slightest tone of offense in his voice, which had caused the Breton to retract her hand and pocket the coins.

"I apologize. I did not mean to offend."

"It's okay. Tell you what, I'll have to leave to perform my duties elsewhere. The rebellion in Skyrim is getting worse, and I might be stationed back home if things escalate. I'm not sure when I'll take leave from Cyrodiil to deal the Ulfric Stormcloak, but...if you want, I could come back. Make sure the trolls stay away." Hadvar suggested, and the man's words made Shealyne's brow arch in curiosity and confusion.

"You would want to return here?" She echoed, the man nodding, smiling.

"Of course. I like checking up with people I help, and I think it seems a bit fitting that I see this thing to the end-if the trolls ever come back, of course."

"Ahh. I see, then. But I am at a loss of whom you speak of-who is this Ulfric Stormcloak?" Shealyne asked, the young man looking upon her as if she were queer.

"You haven't heard of the rebellion in Skyrim? I guess there are other things of importance to the people of Cyrodiil, but I always like to keep an ear open about home. But Ulfric and his little rebellion are called the Stormcloaks. They fire up the Nords about the ban of Talos by the Empire and are trying to liberate Skyrim from the Legion. Ulfric is supposed to have a death or glory attitude, but I can't say whether he does or not. I heard rumors the Legion might send General Tullius to crack down on the rebellion. If that's true, the Stormcloaks won't last too long, I think." Hadvar explained, Shealyne wondering who this General Tullius was. The last great Commander she heard of was Adamus Phillida. That bastard tried to kill her so many times...shame she never got the chance to return the favor.

"I understand. I feel no need to be informed with politics, for it hardly affects one such as myself all the way out here. Still, thank you. Thank you for your efforts." Shealyne had smiled gently, the Nord extending his hand, and the action had initially confused the woman as she looked upon them-calloused and blistered. So unlike her own soft and fragile ones.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Shealyne had shook his hand, she almost ripping her hand away as she felt immense heat surge from his person, and a pulse that had startled her. Yet, she had held the simple handshake, her grip weak-for she was fearful of him feeling no pulse within her cold flesh were she to squeeze any harder. His grip, she felt, was firm, though she felt as if the man was not squeezing as much as he could, as if fearful of harming her-or pertaining a slight meekness, almost shyness underneath the amicable persona. She had felt the rhythm of his pulse, strong and steady, each beat of his heart producing an almost painful heat to surge into her dead flesh.

Faint visions began to flash within her mind, though these visions of her past deeds the woman was forced to push aside. Rather, the woman had slowly slipped from his grasp, the odd sensation of pain and perhaps...she was not sure what it was. To come into physical contact with a pulse was so strange. It was odd, it was unfamiliar, it was...exciting? Yes, that was it. It was exciting-no. Exhilarating. But what was causing this feeling? Was it the constant need to feed upon warm blood once again? Was it her own nervousness of coming into contact with another in so long, her fear of being discovered? Or was it...something else? Was it the need for...companionship? Friendship? Family? She was unsure, but any familiar bonds had died along with the Third Era. All of her friends. All of her Dark Brothers and Sisters. All of her blood. Now most likely all dead. Or perhaps not.

Shaking herself from her ravine, Shealyne had focused to look upon the Nord once more, smiling softly despite her turmoil, "Thank you."

"You are welcome, again." Hadvar replied, taking his leave once given directions upon how to return to the Imperial Highway and resume his patrol.

When alone, Shealyne sighed as she turned towards her home, which was ruined. It would take days to get the home in proper shape, and the mere thought of what was before her had almost sent her into tears. Her beautiful home, now ruined and smelled like troll.

"Sithis take those damned trolls." Shealyne spat, walking into her home and attempting to put the shattered door back together. Thinking back to what had just happened, she hoped those foul creatures were gone. Dwelling upon the topic, she also had low hopes that the man would return. Yet she knew that like many things, only time would tell if his word was true. She wasn't entirely thrilled to have a mortal hanging around the place-a Nord, no less-despite how the young man seemed the exact opposite of how she had remembered the Nordic race. She did not want to become that creature she used to be, once upon a time in a midnight's reign, all those years ago.

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**Sorry for any grammatical errors, if there are any. I neglected to mention that this story is Pre-Skyrim, though I don't plan for it to go into the game much, if at all.**

****Thank you for reading this story as well as favoriting/following and reviewing!****


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi, all! Sorry for the long wait. It look me a while to write this chapter. I hope you enjoy! Most of this is a dream segment. Sorry about that.**

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_Nothing but the soft glow of the dimly lit candle cast shadows about the private chamber, briefly giving life to something intangible until the flame was destined to falter and die. The young woman had remained upon the precipice, lightly rasping her bony knuckles upon the gaping maw of the oak doors, the wood dark with age._

_The darkness of the Sanctuary was thick-almost suffocating and lurking-yet to these denizens, the shadows were their home. For a brief second, Shealyne had thought that the man did not hear her, had thought that she had no right to intrude upon this hour in the early morn and that he would be irritated by her disturbing presence, yet knew that her dear mentor would always give her succor, even when most grim._

_Slowly did the Breton's bloodmoon hued eyes move from his reading towards his younger kin, followed by the gentle incline of his rising head as he acknowledged her, a soft smile gracing his lips, "Ahh, there you are, Sister. Please, do not mind me, I was just finishing my read. Come sit, I implore you."_

_Vicente's soft and gentle voice had wafted through the darkness, cutting the shadows, the silence like a sharpened blade. Slowly did the girl enter her better's private quarters, a sullen smile gracing her chapped lips, "You do me too much honor, Brother Dearest."_

_A chuckle had escaped the older man, fangs glistening in the faint light from the candle's flame, "I assure you, it is my pleasure. Would you care for some Cyrodilic Brandy?-Mixed with blood and honey, of course."_

_"Thank you, but I fear I must decline your most generous offer, Brother." Shealyne replied, sitting down across from the man, the dull light casting shadows upon her gaunt face. Within the illumination, Shealyne could feel her mentor's eyes upon her, as if swiftly studying her._

_"Ah, I understand...have you not been feeding, Shealyne?" Vicente questioned, voice gentle, as if the man had sensed the cause was far deeper, and needed to be coaxed from her. Afterall, it was so unlike his darling daughter to go without feeding. She tended to have such a ravenous appetite-far more than he._

_"It is that noticeable?" The younger questioned, raising a thin brown in curiosity, "I thought I could hide it well."_

_"Perhaps from others, but not from me. Remember, child, I have had the Dark Gift for well over two centuries. If I cannot tell the pangs of my own kind, then perhaps I am falling to old age, hmm?" The Breton male chuckled, iron fangs flashing in the mirk, "But please, tell me what is the matter."_

_"I hardly think my lack of feeding is anything but interesting, Vicente." The younger laughed, a breathless, silent sound as a pale hand rose and rubbed against red irises, "Or do you find the lives of young vampires more interesting than your books?"_

_"I have no desire to pry into the affairs of those younger than I. Chances are, I have been through what you are experiencing, and much more. I believe certain experiences are better left unrepeated. So, to answer your question, Shealyne, my books suit me well enough. No need to fear." Vicente had smiled, warm yet waning, for the woman would not reveal so easily. Caution would need to be taken, for one misplaced word would shut him out._

_"I believe you. I will never know what you have done or seen, but I can only imagine. Hmmmmm..." Shealyne broke off, a coy smile gracing her lips as she looked upon the man, something akin to curiosity._

_Vicente had noticed, though knew not what she thought, "And pray tell, Sister Dearest, whatever is running around within your little mind?" The male Breton questioned, a boney knuckle scraping against his cheek, elbow resting upon the table._

_"I think...you should write a book." The woman had smiled, red irises quivering like waters run crimson._

_"Me? Write a book?" Vicente questioned, eyes widening at the suggestion. Very few things had shocked the Breton, for he had seen the most bizarre events within his unnatural life span...but this was something he did not expect._

_Shealyne cocked her head towards the man, a thin brow raising, "Yes. A book. I don't think you should sound so shocked, Vicente. You are an avid reader, surely, and you are bound to have all the qualities of a marvelous author. I mean, all the experience you have...I'm sure most never even lived to tell the tales of horrors that you could recite."_

_Vicente's nostrils flared slightly as a soft laugh escaped him, "My, my, you have so much faith in me. I am flattered. I fear you give me too much credit, however. My life has not been as exciting as you tend to believe."_

_"Oh, but surely it has! I can only imagine over three centuries of travel, war, legends, politics, love..."_

_"Love?" Vicente echoed, a thin brow raising in response, though a smile toyed upon his lips, "Now where ever did you get the idea that I, Vicente Valtieri, fell in love, my dear?"_

_His question had caused the younger pause, and she fretted and fumbled with her words, "Well...everyone falls in love, at some point. I think you would have fallen in love many a time. Three centuries is an awfully long time to be alone, I think. Unless you never did."_

_A soft snort escaped Vicente, the man shifting in his seat as one leg crossed over the other, a finger resting upon his temple, an elbow setting upon the table, and a knowing smile crossed his features, "Ahhh, suddenly interested in my private affairs, are we not?"_

_"Um-No. No, but...I just assumed you have experience, since you said-" She had stopped herself, and had now refused to speak._

_"I have been through what you are experiencing...and much more. I see then." Vicente had finished for her, voice soft, reassuring, warming and familiar, "Shealyne, is that why you have not been feeding?"_

_The man had looked upon her, the woman looking towards the far wall, looking at something only she could see in the darkness. Slowly she had turned her gaze towards her mentor, simply staring upon him, almost blankly so. But Vicente did not mind, no. He just wanted the truth, for she was on a self destructive path._

_Ever so briefly she had nodded. Then, ever so briefly she had shook her head, voice too ashamed to be heard._

_"Ah..." Vicente grunted, now knowing his assumptions were correct, and that the problem was far deeper, "Then why are you not feeding, truly? Is it to appease Sithis?"_

_Once more, she had ever so briefly nodded. Then, ever so briefly she had shook her head. This time, however, her head did not cease in shaking, lightly rocking back and forth as a hand covered her eyes, shoulders trembling and body shaking._

_Vicente frowned, a cold hand reaching out and lightly touching her arm, though the shielding hand refused to budge, "May I see?" He asked softly, gently, grip firm yet nonthreatening._

_Slowly, softly, gently did her hand fall, mask of flesh revealing a trail of tears, their paths illuminated from the small flame, eyes wet and red rimmed. Vicented said nothing, for any word spoken would frighten her, and her shame would forever be her own. She did not look at him, could not, even. He could see it, even though her eyes did not gaze upon him. Her shame was killing her._

_His larger hand broke contact with her arm, a thumb caressing against tender flesh wet with tears. Vicente gingerly wiped away her pain, though it was comfort she did not receive, for she moved from his touch._

_She had pulled away, wiping her own tears dry, yet her mind dwelled upon matters that only made the leak stronger. A crack within the walls that only she had the tools to fix. A frown had fallen upon the Breton male's face, a hand once more rising to softly rest upon her own, a larger thumb once more brushing away the sorrowful stains._

_A soft, almost breathless sigh had escaped Shealyne, who had no longer drawn away from his touch. Rather, she had embraced his affections, head tilting towards his caring hand. Dead flesh upon dead flesh._

_In time, Vicente's hand was beckoned towards his side, Shealyne sniffing softly in the dark chamber, the candle dying, and the air remained pregnant with words too strong to speak._

_Vicente had remained quiet, allowing the girl to collect herself as he looked upon her, broken and falling._

_"Why do you do it, Shealyne?" The man questioned softly, warm voice cutting through the cold darkness, "Why do you do this to yourself, child?"_

_Shealyne's eyes had become downcast, dark and hazy, yet hesitation was present in her movements as her gaze fell upon him, "As punishment."_

_"Punishment?" Vicente repeated, voice heavy with concern, "Does our Dearest Speaker know of this? Was it he whom had assigned this punishment?"_

_The young woman frowned, shaking her head, "No. Speaker Lucien does not know. I act upon my own accord, because...because I am not worthy to be called a Dark Sister."_

_Vicente had looked upon the younger, eyes laced with pity, though dared not speak for fear she would shut him out. Rather, his hand rested upon her smaller one, pale on paler, enveloping her fragile form to simply show he was there._

_Shealyne's lip had quivered, shaking, teeth biting into flesh. Hesitant, voice trembling, she had unfurled her shame, "I love someone that is not of our Family. I am...I am betraying our Family, because I'm...because I'm not as strong as the others. I'm not strong enough for our Dread Father. I am not worthy of your friendship or kindness. And for my disloyalty...I am hoping to...to appease Sithis by remaining abstinent from feeding. To try and prove I am strong enough."_

_She had then paused, eyes looking upon her mentor, studying him before her voice rose, "I love him, yet I tried everything to stay away, to distance myself. But I just can't. It feels...It feels normal, refreshing, freeing, but it's wrong. I know it's wrong, and I feel scared, and the only thing I'm doing is endangering him and cheating our Family! I've tried, Vicente, I've tried so many times to remain loyal to our Family and push him away, but I can't! It hurts, it hurts too much, and I don't understand why! My heart is dead, and still, but it hurts, like it's being ripped out of my chest every time I think about losing him. Please, Vicente, do not tell-do not tell the others! If they know they will assume, and if they assume they will kill. I want to keep him safe. And if I must suffer, then so be it. Just...Just do not look down upon me for this. Please, Vicente. I wouldn't be able to handle it if...you looked upon me with shame. I wouldn't be able to handle that! Please..." The girl shivered, shaking, scared, iron in the belly._

_Vicente sighed, soft and soundless, yet his hand still rested upon her smaller one, carefully digesting her words, "You tread a difficult path, child. One that I regret to say that I know well, for it has taught me one thing: love is not for our kind. It is a cruel and painful lesson, Sister, and one that I am unfit to judge you so, for I would be hypocritical were I to deem you weak for such."_

_Shealyne had remained silent, listening intently to his words that drifted through the swallowing darkness. Vicente spoke hesitantly, lips forming in soundless words as he thought on how to continue, as if preparing, "I am not ashamed of you, nor do I view you as unworthy to be called a Dark Sister. Love is natural for those unaffected with vampirism, and as of now, your mind is still churning, trying and failing to grasp upon a mortal's life, a reminisce of your past. In time, that idealization shall fade as your mind adapts. It is...unpleasant, and painful, but...it is what we all go through. It is...something that separates us from being human. Fully human, the humans we once were, and shall never be again."_

_"I see..." The woman replied, voice barely a whisper, melting into the soft shadows carved by the gentle glow of the dying wick set aflame, "It is...normal?"_

_"Normal for a young mind untouched by the cruelties of time, yes." The man confirmed, simply nodding, "Shealyne, there is no need to be ashamed for falling in love. Love is blind to affiliations and physical appearances. Clearly were you able to choose whom you fell in love with, it would not be this man, but you fell. We cannot control with whom or what we fall in love with, child. It is not your fault, nor does it make you undeserving of being called a Dark Sister. Just know that the only thing upon the road which you tread is despair. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you will adapt."_

_The woman had looked down, her red hued eyes looking upon his hand-which was still upon hers. Not once had it ceased in firm pressure._

_"It is not your fault, Shealyne." Vicente's tone ripped through the darkened air, firm yet gentle like his hold._

_"Not...my fault?" She echoed, voice lost, looking upon him, gaze reassuring, "It's...not my fault. Not my fault. Yes."_

_The slightest upward tug upon the corners of his mouth indicated the birth of a smile, the man's fangs glistening in the dying flame, "It is not your fault. Just remember that any turmoil you shall face will fade in time. Any pain, any grief, any rage will dull. You may not be able to understand at first, but with enough time, you shall. In time. But, if I may be so bold, may I ask a question?"_

_"Yes. What is it, Vicente?" Shealyne questioned, looking upon the man curiosity, almost distrustfully._

_"When are you going to allow yourself to feed, Sister Dearest? When will you stop punishing yourself?" The man pried, the woman falling silent, gaze shifting before falling back to her mentor._

_"When I hear Sithis whisper into the darkest depths of my soul. Enough. And I shall cease."_

_"And if you do not hear our Dread Father?" Vicente pressed, a brow arching slightly._

_"Then I am not worthy of his mercy, nor the Night Mother's." Shealyne had stated it with such fluidity it sounded as if she had repeated that very line to herself numerous times._

_"I love him." The young woman stated, simple yet true, a leg kicking slightly from under the chair-back and forth, back and forth, as if she were a child. Though within Vicente's eyes, she was a child._

_"I can hear well. You think highly of him." The Breton male smiled slightly, posture becoming more amicable, teasing, even._

_"Yes. I do." Shealyne mimicked his facial expression, pausing slightly, "You have experienced the same, yes? May I ask what happened?"_

_At that, Vicente paused, head once more cocking in curiosity before a gentle grin molded itself upon his gaunt face, a finger briefly pointing to the golden amulet laced in shimmering chain. He did not speak, but merely held his pointer towards the jewelry before setting his hand back down, grin having fallen to a sullen frown._

_"She faded away." The three simple words echoed within the younger Breton's ears, searing into her mind. Now looking upon the simple amulet with new found light, Shealyne had peered closer, the metal glowing in the dim light. Though her eyes had narrowed and squinted upon seeing a dark blemish stain the pure metal. It was strange, for she did not notice it before, and surely Vicente would have noticed before she._

_The girl was sure her eyes were playing tricks upon her, for the stain grew in size, and began to lazily trickle down the amulet. It looked almost like..._

_Her nostrils flared as the scent of blood hit her nose, crimson eyes now locked upon the bleeding medalon. Her lips slightly parted, fangs eager and unsheathed from tender flesh as the cold stab of an iron dagger returned within her famished stomach. Something was wrong; she had known that well enough. Yet she did not care, for the pangs of hunger were far too tempting to sate._

_The female Breton drew closer, dazed and mesmerized so that she failed to realize the twisted snarl that had appeared upon the man's face. Though the face of the man was no longer her mentor. It was him._

_Too late had her eyes snapped upon him, widening in terror and recognition at the Nord before her. She had seen the smug, sadistic smile stretch across his thin lips, canines sharp, jaw strong, nose large and jutting, cheekbones strong, eyes rimmed red with insanity juxtaposing his ice blue irises and soulless pupils-dead, dark and done. He gave her that look, the same look from centuries ago, the same look in the old fort, the same look with hands stained red. And before she even had the sense to pull back, the blood stained medalon erupted in a fury of blood, shard and shock._

_The force of the magic had sent the Breton reeling backwards over her chair, blood within her eyes, shards within her dead flesh and a storm wrecking and seizing her body. It was strong-stronger than before, as if the wrath of the Gods erupted from his very fingertips._

_Stunned. She was stunned-just like before-and could not move. Could not think. Could not react as the Nord pulled her to her feet, hands rough and calloused, greasy blond hair singed from a self causing fire. He tried to burn them out. Tried to burn her out to keep the Daedric Artifact for himself. It sang to him. And he had the key to exit the darkest halls of the old fort._

_He had held her up, Shealyne blinking the blood out of her eyes, vision a blur, as if the events were going to fast and the room was buzzing. But it was no longer the familiar chamber. It was the halls of the fort. And she was trapped, for the cold bars of a mechanical gate pressed against her back whilst the Nord towered in front of her._

_A haunted and twisted sneer snaked into his features, eyes glistening with something akin to sadistic glee. Time seemed to slow as she tried to remember what would happen next-remember what happened-though the effects of the spell still convulsed and twitched within her body. She struggled to move, to fight back, to kick, to reach for her dagger, to cast a spell, to rip his throat out, to do anything, yet she simply could not, and her struggles were rewarded by being harshly slammed into the iron gate, spikes digging into her back. She was not in control here. The Nord had all the power, and even in death he had still haunted her. His sneer was evident enough, barbaric hands clenching and unclenching. She did not understand. It seemed so familiar, yet she could not grasp it._

_The smile had grown, the Nord drawing his head closer towards her person, lips to ear, yet he did not speak. The fort had grown deathly silent, Shealyne unable to get away, yet could see an unnatural grin still plastered upon his face, dead eyes staring passed her, unblinking. The man did not even move. He did not even breathe._

_"I'm going to rape your corpse."_

_His hands had grasped her neck, and crushed_ _her throat._

* * *

Stricken in terror, Shealyne had jolted awake, gasping for breath she did not need and body trembling. Her fingers had gone for her throat, feeling for the bruises that had made the pain and tightness upon her neck seem all too real. Her eyes had swiftly glanced around her room, a gentle breeze toying with her hair and tapestries, yet she had found no one within her dwelling. No one outside, watching. No one inside-though her eyes had played tricks upon her, and many times had she thought she saw the Nord, just hiding behind the tapestries and dancing shadows. Her superior vision had laid her fears to rest, though it did not stop those dreaded words from ringing in her ears. They sounded so real, an echo of a memory, perhaps. Though why the memory would resurface in a nightmare, she did not know.

Still trembling, yet far too unnerved to relax, the woman had rose from her bed, the comforter hazardously twisted and half off the bed from her night struggles. Adjusting her nightgown, Shealyne had then fallen to her knees and pulled out a chest, opening the wooden box. She had pulled out a bottle and swiftly popped the cork, eagerly putting the rim to her lips and drinking the thick and globbed fluid of life. The blood may not have been fresh, but she was willing to sacrifice. Living this far out into the wilderness meant sparse prey. Sparse prey meant she would have to adapt.

The taste was far different than that of human or mer blood. In truth, she could no longer remember what the blood of men tasted like, for cattle had become her choice. It was far easier to prey upon livestock-especially when the butchers had a habit of dumping the excess blood and entrails into the river. All she needed to do was time the drop offs and restock. For all the men knew, she was a poor woman looking for scraps of secondary choice flesh or looking for alchemy ingredients. Both of which were true.

Deciding she had fed enough, the vampire had rammed the cork back into the bottle's mouth and packed the chest once more under her bed. The hunger was sated-if however briefly-and her mind had once again calmed and cleared.

Rubbing her eyes, the Breton tried to think of what had beckoned her infamous nightmare. It had been a week since that soldier arrived, and not once had she seen the trolls. Or heard of them, in any case. The only reason she could think of the memories recurring as dreams was simply due to the man being a Nord. She had thought herself long over the trauma, but it seemed that she was not.

Shealyne sighed, not sure why the man was on her mind. She didn't even remember his name, and doubted he would ever return. Yet, the young soldier seemed to juxtapose everything that a Nord simply was. She did not understand, nor did she try to make sense of the matter.

Deciding to push the thoughts from her mind, the woman began to fix the comforter and adjust it properly. Her small shack was mostly clean and as orderly as she could get it. Though the railings and door were still broken, Shealyne was no carpenter by far, and would not even attempt to fix the framework. She knew she would need to deal with it eventually.

The woman was ripped out of her thoughts as her ears picked up on a cry, faint, yet high pitched and shrill. She had paused, straining her senses and hoping it was just her paranoia preying upon her. Yet she had heard the cry again, closer, and more defined. It was the cry of a troll.

Terror had overtook her body, her pupils now reflecting the dim light of the moon as her eyes spotted faint pulses and sparkles approaching and getting stronger. Though they were not from underground. They were on ground level. And were approaching far too fast to be anything but a troll-even if only one.

Knowing she could not outrun them, and did not have the gall to fight, Shealyne had swiftly cast an invisibility spell upon herself, hiding in the corner nearest the ruined the door.

Her unnatural eyes had watched as the troll grow closer, moving underneath the shack. Briefly she had wondered if the beast would continue on its way, but was startled and barely suppressed a scream as a troll breached through the floorboards, wood and furniture flying as the beast roared.

The troll was not the Alpha, and appeared to be the smallest member of the family. It's lack of size did not make the hairy creature any less destructive as it smashed vases, tore her linens down, flipped chains and smashed her desk.

Shealyne trembled and huddled in the corner, hoping the troll would not throw something in her direction, and prayed the spell would not wear off. If it were, she would be trapped, and overwhelmed. Yet seeing the creature physically destroy her home was far more painful-for it was not the second time-and the woman was forced to clamp her mouth shut to keep from weeping.

She had barely noticed the harsh shattering and breaking of her home had stopped, for her eyes had been closed and Shealyne had been trying to keep herself quiet. The silence was almost deafening, and when her eyes had opened she had noticed the troll now looking directly at her.

Cold fear had gripped her core, and she had panicked at the thought that the spell had worn off. Yet the troll did not look directly at her, and rather passed her, it's nostrils flaring. The troll drew near, jowls open and rancid breath reeking.

The beast drew near, it's massive canines mere inches from her head as she clamped her mouth painfully shut, daring not to whimper or gag. It's nostrils continued to flare, and that was when Shealyne realized it could smell her scent. It could not see her, but it could smell her.

Not even daring to move, the Breton closed her eyes, a shrill cry in the distance causing the small troll to tear away from her direction. The hulking creature answered with a high pitched scream, the door cracking as the troll forced itself through to join its family members.

Several minutes passed, and the spell had long since worn off. Yet Shealyne did not move, the Breton far too panicked and alert to do anything but listen for the approach of the troop. Her knees buckled and gave out under her own weight, quiet sobs wracking her body. Twice these creatures had ruined her home, and by now she had felt violated and vulnerable. She did not want to lose her home, though feared that she very well may. More than ever she hoped that soldier would be true to his word. Not all Nords could be like the ones that haunt her. Surly some were good.

* * *

**The dream segment was based on a dream I had. It was very creepy, and the Nord guy did say that and almost killed Shea. Though she was rescued before almost dying. I think it involved the Thieves Guild and they stole a Daedric Artifact that would have cryptic writing on it. It would give clues on who would murder next, and would change with each new future murderer. Course, it made everyone turn on each other. And sorry for the lack of Hadvar. He'll come in during the next chapter. Either way, thank you for reading** **and feel free to review. **


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, all! I apologize for the short chapter, but I am very busy at the moment, so I at least tried to get something out. But on the bright side, this one has Hadvar! Yay! Either way, I hope you enjoy!

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Yet a week had passed, and the Breton woman had been living on the verge of paranoia with each falling sun and rising moon. Not that the presence of sunlight would stop the trolls. However, by nature the ape like creatures were nocturnal, and the harsh rays of the sun had hurt their darkened eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, Shealyne seemed to have more in common with the trolls than mortal men and women. The hairy beasts were savage and cruel, living off of instinct. And was she really that different? The woman may have played the role of a mortal woman, but the undead beast underneath was always present. Caged, and subdued, but always testing the chains.

In truth, Shealyne had recently been testing her control, and it has been spreading thin with each passing day she would deprive herself of nutrition. She had no longer dared to walk in the sun's rays, for the light should scorch her, and sear her flesh in painful rashes and boiling blisters. She was fearful of feeding now, fearful of drawing the beasts out of their lairs by the scent. The constant pangs of hunger made her irritable, and the shackles upon the monster within-what she truly was-was weakening.

Shealyne knew she could very well just take a bottle and gorge some distance away in the moonlight, but she would not. Her stubborn pride would not allow these creatures to take her home away from her. No matter how worn and battered, this was her home. She was driven out once before, and she would not be again. She would rather die fighting and have her ashes scatter in the wind.

As of now, the sun had risen passed the tallest clouds, and the Breton had stayed deep within her shaded dwelling. She would not leave the house. She would not drink. Drinking made her weaker...almost human. Either these beasts would come to her, or she would come to them, and finally unleash the chains that subdued her true nature. She could not remember when she had last allowed the raw instinct to feed take over her. At this point, the mere thought was far too tempting, and she began to salivate at the very thought of feeding on the blood of those filthy creatures. As filthy as they were, fur covered with an earthen musk and something akin to sweat, her lips tingled at the fantasy, trying to imagine-remember-what it felt like to tear into flesh and drain blood that was hot. Almost too hot. Boiling. As if it were the very blood of the earth breaching the crust. Scorching and angry, smoldering and raging hotter than the very sun that charred her pale, dead skin.

The woman could faintly hear the steady beating of a heart pound within her ears and resonate in her skull. It was so close, yet so far. As if teetering on the precipice of real and unreal. A shadow of a distant memory, and whisper of a wisp, whirling in forgotten fantasies and dreams.

While at first her deluded fantasies were ecstatic, the pulsing did not stop, and try as she might, it did not leave. It only became stronger. Why, she did not know save for the fact that pain began to thump and make it's presence known. The rhythm had become stronger and sharper, and in time the Breton could no longer tell if this pulsing was indeed coming from her own mind in an hallucination, or if indeed it was more than a trick of the mind. The pressure had swelled, and she had thought that her head would explode.

Shealyne had flinched upon hearing a loud bang resound throughout the room, every sound made after becoming dull in her ears, as if someone had wrapped a blanket around her head. Confused at the sudden stop in the pulses within her head, and vexed at the gain of brief pounding upon a solid object, she had paused to listen, and try and learn from the matter. It was then she had realized through the partial deafness that the noise was coming from outside.

Looking towards the ruined entrance of her home, it was with shock and horror that she had seen the same soldier from some weeks ago.

She had looked upon the man, Imperial armor gleaming in the harsh sun, his lips pierced into a thin line, as if inspecting the quality of the small wooden home, and putting together what had happened.

"You!...You...!" Shealyne hissed, hostility and irritation within her voice, though the woman found she could not speak. It had all come together. The pulses were not a figment of her imagination, of her desires. The pulse-the heartbeat-it was from that damned Nord. She was not sure what was worse-her irrational rage towards the man in failing to aid her, or the instinctive urge to feed, "How dare you have the gall to return to one you have failed to aid!"

Hadvar had shrunken back upon hearing the woman's hostility, hands raising in self defense, motioning for her to calm, "Whoa, whoa, easy there...You're right, you're right. I failed. I'm sorry for not being more thorough with these creatures. But I kept my word, and came back. I promise you, on my honor, that I won't make the same mistake again."

The Breton had narrowed her gaze upon him, saliva output increasing at the subconscious desire, eyes hard, "You will not last in a confrontation."

"I may not, but I can try. I don't intend to leave until those things are dead." Hadvar replied, voice low as a strong arm extended from his side, hand awaiting to take hers in a pact.

The woman had stared upon the hand awaiting her hold, caught in the rays of the sun she dared not enter. Slowly, Shealyne had extended her hand, faltering just where shadow abruptly passed, fingers shaking as if to reach for something that just was not there.

Silence had reigned between the pair, the Nord then moving his waiting hand passed the precipice and clasping her trembling hold. The woman had froze, searing pulses penetrating deep within her dead flesh, visions of fangs tearing and blood spilling from the neck.

She had wanted to lunge, strike, tear into the artery of the man's neck that was pulsing far too loudly, marring her flesh with a pain far hotter than any sun could rage. For a brief second, the Breton was almost positive that she had struck, fangs flashing, nails raking against the back of the nape, a hiss tearing from her throat, chains breaking. But only ever so briefly, for the Nord had released her hand, beckoning his limb to his own side. Shealyne had ripped her own away, the woman struggling to conceal her signs of distress as she struggled to speak, but could not, a ball seeming to have formed within her throat.

"There. That wasn't so hard, was it? I don't bite like the trolls do, ma'am." Hadvar spoke, smiling softly despite the woman's harsh nature, the young man showing that no bitter feelings had lingered.

"...I...I..." Shealyne stammered, struggling to speak, but found herself tonguetied, found herself fearing that if she tried to speak too assertively that a hiss would escape from her lungs. She could have sworn that she had attacked, lunged the man, sunk fangs into his soft throat and gorged herself despite the struggle spilling out into the sun's rays, flesh searing and smoldering in angry rashes. But she did not. The beast was still chained-if however loosely.

"Shealyne?" The man questioned, an eyebrow raised in curiosity as the man made a move to approach, but was beckoned back by feminine hands.

"No!...Yo-you...you wait here-off to the side. I will...I will join you shortly." The Breton forced the words passed her trembling lips, body shaking, hearing sharpening as the constant, deafening rhythm of his heart resounded within her skull once more.

Motioning to have the man away, Shealyne retreated into her ruined dwelling, the woman moving with a wounded gait towards her bed. Kneeling down, she had hurriedly ripped the chest from under her frame, hastily opening the box and pulling out several bottles in her anxious state.

The vampiress had carelessly freed a cork from it's glass prison as she hungerly drank, the semi clotted blood moving agonizingly slow. Once empting one bottle, she had descended upon another, and then a third, and then a fourth. A subconscious terror had gripped her that Shealyne would be unable to stop, and in fearing the outcome, had stopped in her indulgence. She had breathed swiftly, raggedly as her tongue darted into the bottle's neck, nostrils flaring and eyes glazed.

The Breton had remained there for some time in that state of high, no longer fearing the trolls if they had smelled the dried blood upon her maw. She no longer feared for the safety of the Nord. He may have been safe from her, he may have not. She could not tell. Only the beast could.

Gaining her senses as the high began to wear off, the woman had restuffed the corks and placed the bottles within the chest. Shealyne was about to return to the Nord, before realizing the blood that had ran down her neck and chest. Doing her best to clean up, she had then moved to a bucket of water, cupping her hands and sipping the stale liquid. Flushing her mouth clean, the Breton had then spat the contents into one of the view plants she could save, not wanting to waste water. She then briefly wondered if various plants could acquire vampirism.

Shaking, Shealyne had walked towards the ruined opening of her dwelling, the sun no longer an enemy, but a friend. The Breton sighed, wondering if the trolls would pick up the scent of blood. In part, she hoped they did. It would make a fight more in their favor. But they could not just lure the beasts out. They needed a plan. If this boy was true to his word, he would stay until these creatures were cold and dead. But could Hadvar truly trust the wolf in sheep's clothing? Could Shealyne keep the beast in chains? Or was she already the beast, her once cherished humanity not even a memory? Was she simply a husk, an eminent of what she once was over two hundred years ago? A creature-not a person-that should have perished in the Oblivion Crisis, now lost, and forgotten by Time. She did not know. She did not even remember what it felt like to be human. She forgot how to be one, and was now allying with a naive, foolish boy.

Shealyne couldn't help but muse to herself. If this boy had met her but two centuries ago-he would already be dead. And those were the times she had considered herself most human.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Now, I would like opinions on what I should write after Dead Heart is eventually completed. I am working on stories from my dreams, and this one is the current project. But I have several others to work on after this of varying ratings and genres. So, the choices are:

**Stolkholm Sydrome: **A dead drop requires a pair of Silencers to assassinate a wealthy and influential noble from High Rock. After Shealyne falters and fails to slit the man's throat at a ball upon recognizing her parents, it forces Mathieu to play the Devil's Advocate that makes their quarry to come to them. With his teenage daughter held hostage in the wilds, the merchant is willing to go to his killers in order to see his daughter free and unharmed. However, things don't go quite as planned for the assassins, as the girl swiftly developes a liking to Bellamont-much to Shealyne's chagrin.

**Location**: Daggerfall, High Rock

**Featured Characters**: Mathieu Bellamont

**Rating**: Teen, possibly. Mature for attempted sexual content also possible.

* * *

**Death's Coming**: After the Theive's Guild uncovers a mysterious artifact, they find themselves at a loss of what its true nature is. Unable to perform any legal endeavors, the Guild makes a rare contract with the Dark Brotherhood, to which Shealyne is sent due to her years in dabbling with the Dark Arts. However, the artifact is unlike any she has ever seen before, for the simple cube sports cryptic messages upon its sides that she cannot comprehend. Until a brutal murder shocks the group, the assailant a loyal member of the Guild. Upon dealing with the perpitrator, Shealyne then realizes that the crypic message, in fact, changed. It is too late that she realizes the seemingly mindless murder is the first of many, and that she is unknowingly in the sights of a ruthless killer.

**Location: **Unknown; Ruined Fort formerly used by Thieve's Guild

**Featured Characters**: Mainly OCs, possibly notable Guild members

**Rating**: Mature for massive, possibly disturbing violence, murder/attempted murder, torture and attempted murder and rape of a body

* * *

**Forget-Me-Not**: Shealyne loves her husband. It is something pure and simple, for the young Breton is struggling to put her murderous past behind her and be a good wife. The only things she loves more than her husband, in fact, are their twin sons, who are not even five winters old. However, vampirism is not for those with a weak mind, and the disease manifests into something Shealyne could ever hope to combat: a degradation in memory. While small, and seemingly insignificant at first, the lapses span and grow until the Breton cannot even remember her own children, leaving her young sons confusioned and hurt at their mother's hostility. Guilbert Jemane knows he is losing his wife, and it pains him. She sees him as a stranger, as their sons. Feeling as if he is a failure to his young family, and wondering why the Nine Divines would be so cruel, the Jemane is desperate to find something-anything within the husk that was once his wife.

**Location**: Weatherleah, Cyrodiil

**Featured Characters**: Guilbert Jemane

**Rating**: Teen, possibly; character death

* * *

**Till Death Due Us Part**: After the death of her husband by bandits, Shealyne is far from a passive, mourning widow. The call for vengeance boils strongly in her clotted blood, and the Breton seeks the deaths of those who had desecrated her love's body-and worse-took his wedding ring. Shealyne soon discovers a new level of loneliness, and it is something that makes her question her own immortality-and whether she still retains her humanity.

**Location**: Unknown, Cyrodiil

**Featured Characters**: Guilbert Jemane

**Rating**: Teen for violence

* * *

**Debauchery**: Overindulgence of pleasures are good in small doses. Too much, and it becomes a poison that lingers in the system. For Mathieu and Shealyne, the lives of Silencers can be anything but pleasurable, and normal. In a rare chance of normalcy entering their lives, the partners decide that a night spent drinking their blood money away at the Anvil Docks is what they need. However, the excessive alcohol affects their judgement, causing them to get in over their heads. Quite frankly, after recallying the events with sober minds, the pair decide it's best to never speak of the matter to save their pride. Ever.

**Location**: Anvil, Cyrodiil

**Featured Characters**: Mathieu Bellamont

**Rating**: Mature for drunken idiocy, adult humor, sexual content and a failed threesome

I will eventually have a poll up, but for now these are the choices. Though part of Death's Coming was shown in Dead Heart's dream segment, that was just a tiny(and final) part to the whole dream. I also really want to get to the romance part of this story, but alas, I can't yet. Shealyne is too unstable and Hadvar too mortal. But that's what makes vampire romances fun! Plus, I never see female vampire romances. But thank you for reading and supporting!


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello! I apologize for the long wait and short chapter, but my dream never went over how the trolls were safely slain, so I had to theorize a way they could have been slain without too much character injury. I am also busy, and am not sure when I will be able to write the troll hunting/slaying scene. Otherwise I would have continued this chapter until all the trolls were slain. Either way, I apologize. Still, enjoy if you wish.**

* * *

"Nord-Hadvar, are you ready?" The Breton questioned, voice losing its hostility as she calmed herself enough to remember the Nord's name. Shealyne herself was surprised she even remembered. The woman looked off to the side of her home, finding Hadvar leaning against the wooden wall, whetting his blade. The Son of Skyrim looked towards Shealyne at the mention of his name, putting the whett block within a pouch before sheathing his blade. He simply smiled and nodded.

"Heh, guess my name is weird to you, too. You remembered it." The Nord spoke with a slow drawl as he approached her, stride lax.

The Breton had paused, taken off guard, "I...yes, I did. I am glad." She dared to mold her facial features into the tiniest of smiles.

Hadvar snorted softly, more so out of a lack of dialog than of disrespect, "Well, then, troll expert, have a plan to flush out the happy family?"

"Hmmm?" Shealyne questioned, turning towards him, "Since when have I ever referred to myself as such?"

"Since you stated the difference between a troll from Skyrim and a troll from Cyrodiil is everything. Or is that something you read in a book? I know how delicate you Bretons are, so much that you prefer your fancy magics and scrolls. And politics." Hadvar spoke, voice drawling with a dry tone, suggesting a wry jest.

The Breton rolled her eyes at his subtle wit, though could not hold back her tongue from wagging in response, "Oh, I am surprised you know of such a thing called a book. I hope the little letters do not strain your brain in comprehending their meaning. Here I thought all Nords favored splitting the skulls of their foes with a heavy weapon and drinking themselves to death."

The Nord's nose scrunched as his lips receded, displaying his canines in a slight chuckle, "I will have you know, ma'am, I can not only read, but write. And keep my drinking to a minimum when on duty."

"A man most astounding of the Nordic Race. Truly." Shealyne replied, tongue suddenly clicking, tone sharpening, "But no, I do not know how to lure them out and kill them without possible injury. One, possibly two, but not three."

"Perhaps we can lure one out at a time, bait them out?" The man offered, the red head mulling the option within herself, the light breeze rustling the grass and caressing her cheek.

"Hmmmm...a snare of some sort?" The Sauveterre added, Hadvar nodding in approval.

"A neck snare. Barbed wire, I think would work the best. If anything, it will hopefully prevent one from calling for help. Otherwise we can make other traps, assuming we can lure one out at a time and not become the next meal." The man commented, Shealyne's gaze briefly falling upon him.

"I can make a wooden spear and have a beast impale itself. But I assume you do not have the wire of which you speak?" The Breton questioned, red irises glinting in the day's rays.

"I have fishing wire, though not barbed wire. I think I have enough to make a snare." Hadvar replied, fingers unbuttoning his satchel and rummaging within in a search.

"Fair enough. I will begin crafting a spear." Shealyne replied, briskly taking her leave and allowing the young man to fiddle within his satchel. Before Hadvar could even respond, the Breton left to retrieve a fallen piece of wood from her broken railing.

Walking along the ruined remains of her home, Shealyne felt the cool grasses break and crush under her doe skinned shoes. Looking upon the ground, the Breton estimated that these broken fragments simply would not due. The woman's head turned upward, looking upon the broken railing. Her home was already damaged. She may as well tear it apart some more to eliminate these creatures upon her domain. At least then the gutting of her fragile home would not be in vain.

The Sauveterre entered her domain, skulking to the back of her dwelling and examining the broken railings. She could probably disassemble them into more useful pieces, if she truly tried. With a sudden kick, the Breton shattered the flimsy nailed seems that joined the boards. The wooden beams scattered and fell upon the ground, a loud clank ringing out as wood thudded against the flooring.

Shealyne reached with feminine hands to pick up two wooden boards, examining them. They were sturdy, and thick enough to withstand the weight of such a creature she intended to slay. Though a remainder of her railing remained-as well as several broken pieces which lay upon the floor-the Breton concluded she only needed one or two boards to fulfil her deed. After all, time was of the essence, and not on her side.

The Breton's crimson eyes looked upon the boards before placing one to rest upon her bed. Her free hand unconsciously went to her hip, though had grasped only thin air. When Shealyne noticed her instinctive action, she realized her past was not dead yet. She had not carried a blade upon her in over fifty years, yet her body remembered how to react as if she always carreed one.

The woman sighed in recollection. If ever she needed Mathieu's blade, now was the time. Alas, it was not in her possession. Her daughter had taken it well over two centuries ago.

"Need a blade?" The voice of the Nord caused Shealyne to jump, the woman once more absorbed in her thoughts. She had spun around, prepared to tell the man to leave should he set foot in her home, but found no trace of the youth inside her dwelling. The Breton then spun upon her heels, pupils focusing upon the Legionnaire just below the broken railings of her home.

"Pardon?" The woman questioned, Hadvar showing the woman his dagger, as if to make a statement.

"You're gonna need a blade if you want to make a spear. Or maybe you want broken teeth." The Nord commented, tone laden with dry sarcasm despite his naturally slow drawl.

The woman released a noise within her throat, though slightly bent down and outstretched her hand to receive the blade. Hadvar flipped the blade between his fingers, allowing Shealyne to safely grip the pommel, "Careful, now. It's easy to cut yourself."

"I am more familiar with a blade than I look." The Sauveterre stated, finding herself shivering as she felt the heat from his hand still present upon the pommel. She briefly studied the blade, and though her fingers curled around it with a form of familiarity, something felt off. It felt like the blade wasn't made for her hand. It felt like it wasn't meant to be in the hands of such a creature as herself.

"I guess I will just have to trust you on that." Hadvar nodded, blinking as he watched the woman before scanning the fields. Wherever these trolls were, he saw none yet, "I set up the snare as well, using a tree. I can show it to you later. I figured we would be a bit safer near the forest where we got cover between us and not out in the open."

Shealyne did not reply, beginning to twiddle a board into a jagged point that would spill the blood of those that disturbed her territory.

* * *

**The next chapter will be filled with troll death, though I do not known when it will be out. It will no doubt take a while to write. If anyone is interested in my other Elder Scroll works, I only have one other work worth mentioning: Flesh and Soul. Also dream inspired. Otherwise any Elder Scrolls planned works are on my profile. I just have to get this project out of the way, and then I can continue. Either way, thank you for reading and have a good day!  
**


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